honey tea
by RebelzHeart
Summary: In which Peter steals shirts, acts quiet, and has a heart to heart with Matt. Fourth in a cup of tea series.


**Reply to Guest:** An apology for your heart.  
 **Reply to Molly(Guest):** You absolute darling! Thank you!  
 **Reply to Guest:** Thanks! But if you read my Peter/Michelle stuff, you'd find that I really love them as platonic friends and I actually believe that Michelle is ace.

* * *

There are some nights, Matt notices, when he'll come home and Peter, having already dropped in or having dropped in not long after, will just be quiet.

Not loud or nearly as talkative as usual, just quiet.

Thoughtful.

His heart will twinge with _something_ that Matt can't identify but knows shouldn't be in the heart of someone like Peter, and he does this thing where he just stares at Matt, long and hard, as though he's just a mirage.

And maybe there lies the problem.

He'll just stay silent as he survey's Matt's injuries of the day, occasionally, he'll just stop in the middle of something and stare at it, features schooled and blank but his heart will be childishly scared and lighter than usual as he just. Just breathes, really.

Then he'll snap back to earth as though nothing's happened, as though he didn't just freeze and shut down.

Matt, though he occasionally teases Peter about talking too much, _hates_ these nights.

They're the worst, because it's near those nights that Peter will shut down the day previous or the morning after, too, talking as though nothing's happened, but his words will be strained and his chest will be tight and he might say a lot of words but he's not really saying much at all.

It's just so completely unlike Peter, and Matt wishes that he could fix this, could just tear apart whatever's making Peter like this and make it better.

But he knows he can't, and he was never really the best person when it came to these things, and Peter probably doesn't want to talk to Matt that much anyways, so he just.

It's not giving up.

It's not.

It's just.

Strategical retreat?

Peter steals his shirts sometimes, during this mood.

Matt will rustle through his closet or go out into the kitchen and he'll find a shirt missing, then conveniently hear the smell of _him_ on Peter and the rustle of softer cloth than Peter usually wears.

He doesn't dare call Peter out on it, because he suspects that if he does, Peter will stop wearing it and be too worried to do it again, and he doesn't want to scare Peter off.

He just wants to understand _why_.

He doesn't comment on it. Sometimes during this silence, he'll talk, and Peter will cast him these glances that he can't identify, but most of the time they'll just both sit there, silent and thoughtful.

He confronts Peter after they go clothes shopping and Peter barely buys the bare minimum. Matt starts making a kettle of honey tea, and sits down opposite to the couch as he talks. "Peter, is there a reason that you refuse to wear your own clothes?"

Peter pauses, fingers freezing, spine straightening, and his eyes flicker to Matt for a moment before he curls in up on himself and pulls his feet up to Matt's ratty couch, fingers pulling at the collar of his (Matt's) sweater. "I wear my clothes." His defense is weak at best, resigned and quiet as he runs his fingers against his collarbones.

"You wear _my_ clothes." Matt corrects Peter. "And occasionally you'll go for your own wardrobe. But your scent is never on what you wear." As Peter opens his mouth to protest, Matt adds, "I smelled Stark on that jacket you wore last week, so don't try to pass it off as yours."

Peter closes his mouth with an almost audible click, and then lowers his head again, shuffling the sleeve of Matt's sweater against his wrists. "My clothes aren't comfortable." He mutters under his breath, lifting a shoulder into a half shrug.

"Then we'll just get you more comfortable ones." Matt replies, a little bit surprised that it's a problem that can be solved so quickly.

" _No_." Peter shakes his head forcefully, the words sounding like they were pushed out of him. " _My clothes aren't comfortable_."

And it clicks. Suddenly, Matt _understands_.

Peter's not saying that the clothes are uncomfortable. He's saying that if they belong to him, then they're not comfortable. Matt gets it.

Except he doesn't. Because that makes absolutely no sense.

Matt closes his eyes and tries to figure out what someone who's good at relationships would say. "Can you explain why?" He finally settles on asking, feeling extremely lame and a bit too much like a therapist for his liking.

Peter, usually so talkative and quick with his tongue, is still silent, and when he speaks, it's slow, as though the words are being dragged out of him. "It's just... uncomfortable? I don't..." He buries his face in the shirt and inhales. Matt can smell it from there, his usual shampoo, coffee and the crisp smell of their office. "I don't know." Peter finishes lamely.

"Alright." Matt says, knowing not to push it further. He goes to the kitchen and pours out some of the tea, taking a moment to smile at the sweet smell wafting in the air before he pours it into two cups and takes them out to the living room. "Tea?"

Peter accepts it gratefully, murmuring a soft _thanks_ as he accepts it and takes a cautious sip. "Honey?"

"Honey," Matt confirms Peter's guess with a nod, then waits in silence.

Peter's never done well in silence, even in these moods. He turns his head to the side, staring out the window, away from Matt, and shifts his hold on his glass. "Have you ever," His voice is soft and light, and Matt imagines that even the smallest of breezes could carry it away. "realized that you weren't enough?"

The words are tentative and as easily broken as a spider's web.

Matt wishes he could lie. Wishes he could shake his head, say _no_ , feel strong and proud and mighty, but he knows he can't lie, and from the sound of Peter's heart and voice, he knows that lying isn't a choice that he can make, not now, not ever. "Always." He answers, voice scratchy and rough and he hates himself for saying that but he also knows that it was the right thing to say.

Peter puts down his cup with a light _clank_ , the tea sloshing, reaching for the rim but not quite making it, and Peter says, voice crackling like a radio with a bad connection. "I'm weak." Matt opens his mouth to reply, he doesn't know what he would have said but Peter cuts him off before he even begins. "Not... not strength wise. But. I, I don't know. I feel vulnerable, being me." His face twists, and he picks his glass up again, blowing lightly on the surface before putting it back down. "Sometimes, when I go onto the streets, I think about how easily Peter Parker could be killed. A mugging or some other type of crime gone wrong..."

He sticks out two fingers and puts them to his head, miming a gunshot.

"I'm dead. When I was Spider-man..." _Was, not am_. "I felt invincible."

"But nobody is invincible." Matt says softly, closing his eyes as he sips his tea, the taste of honey heavy on his tongue.

"You aren't." Peter agrees. "Mr. Stark isn't. And that's what... that's what scares me."

 _Ah_. This wasn't about feeling safe because of Matt or Stark's clothes. This was about remembering that they're alive, clinging to them in a way that children did. Matt takes another sip of tea to allow himself a moment of silence, a moment of thought, before he answers. "Peter. I'm not going to die."

"You don't know that." Peter answers softly.

"I swear I won't die."

"You can't control that."

" _Peter_..."

"You know you can't, Matt." Peter shakes his head, hair rustling around his face. "Even you can't stop death."

The words sound ominous, cold.

Matt reaches out and presses a hand onto Peter's. "I won't die." He repeats, strong and firm and hoping that somehow saying it like that can make it true.

Peter finally turns his head to look at Matt, away from the window, away from the billboard, and he stares straight forwards, looking right at Matt. "You don't know that." He repeats, closes his eyes, and breathes.

"But I'm right here." Matt says, and Peter makes a little sound caught between a laugh and a sob. "And that's all that matters."

"We sound so cliche." Peter laughs even as he's crying, swiping the sleeves of Matt's sweater across his eyes and pushing down one hand to meet Matt's. "Like something out of a cheesy chick flick."

Matt shrugs and stands up. "At least we're a _quality_ chick flick." He answers.

Peter scoffs. "We don't even have a love triangle."

Matt laughs at that, still quiet and light, unable to switch moods so quickly after something so tense. "I'm not a pedophile, Peter." He answers, amused.

Peter is making a face, Matt just _knows_. "What about you and Foggy?" He hums, and Matt almost throws his tea at him. Almost. Except he knows that Peter's deflecting.

"Save that kind of talk for Stark, kid." He grunts, and presses a hand against Peter's shoulder as he goes to the kitchen to refill his cup. "I can hear your heartbeat, remember?"

Peter stills slightly, and he touches Matt's hand while it lingers on his shoulder, fingers just barely brushing his knuckles. "Thanks, Matt." He says, soft and unguarded and vulnerable.

Matt squeezes Peter's shoulder. "Alright, kid." He answers, which isn't really an answer nor a proper reply but that's all he can really say, and judging from the smile on Peter's face, it's enough.


End file.
